by Ari Rhoge
“I'm Harrison, in case you didn't realize,” the man said, brightly, pointing to his name badge. “He's a very strange young man, isn't he?”
“That's a bit of an understatement,” mumbled Charlotte, rubbing her eyes. She looked up. “Wait, so… seriously? Your parents named you Harrison.”
“My parents named me Raymond. —— I'm an Indiana Jones fan.”
“Charlotte, don't judge,” I said, turning to Harrison. “What's the next package?”
He knelt down, grabbed it, and dropped it onto the counter. It wasn't even wrapped. It was — “war paint?” Charlotte snorted, grimacing. “What the hell?”
“Here's the address.” Harrison pressed a neatly folded slip of paper into my palm. “If you want, I can arrange a car.”
• • •
The corner of Weston and 79th was a suburban plaza with one stellar, openly glaring (in neon lights, no less) focal point — a gaudy laser-tag megaplex maze of doom. I had to push Charlotte's jaw up. Will Darcy was waiting just outside by the bench, his head in his hands. He looked like he had been dragged there against his will. In all likely reality, he probably had. He winced, and greeted us, looking uncomfortable as usual.
“What gives, Darcy?” I handed him the tape recorder. “Is he serious about this?”
“My cousin has a problem.” He paused. “He's a little crazy.”
“How much did he pay you to come here?” asked Charlotte, coyly.
“He didn't pay me…”
She raised both eyebrows.
“20 bucks.” Darcy looked at me quickly. “I had to get my money back from that poached-salmon bet two days ago.”
“Way to stay strong.” I made a fist. “Might as well see what the hell he's on about.” At that, Charlotte and I followed Darcy inside. The inside was gargantuan and pitch-black, decorated with neon, pulsing strobe lights, a recreational arcade, and separate dinner-party rooms. It reminded me of the birthday parties I had gone to as a kid. Actually, it was for kids. Two boys who looked to be about 10 suddenly darted past, cackling and whipping each other with glow sticks. Happy Birthday was being sung in the next room over, and a little girl was wailing because her brother had taken all of her tokens. Darcy looked like he was fighting a migraine.
Then Rich showed up, and his cousin just about pooped a brick.
God, what to say about our harebrained Fichard Ritzwilliam? Somewhere between the spray-painted tube socks, Nike shocks, war paint and the wife beater, we realized that there was no possible way we were going to back down from this. Darcy opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and opened it again. He passed a hand over his eyes.
“You can't be serious,” Charlotte said, blankly.
“Oh, I am, Miss Lucas,” Rich said, happily handing her a pink ticket. “I am quite serious.”
“Isn't the age limit for laser-tag 12, or something?” I asked, and he held out my ticket warily.
“Are you guys going to bitch about this? This was very cleverly planned. I didn't even tell Will about it, and he's like the M to my James Bond, right now.”
“I'm Judi Dench,” Darcy muttered, dryly.
“That you are. —— Now, take the tickets, and follow me.”
The team room was divided into three separate areas, distinguished from one another by color — yellow, green, and blue. Risers for each team were predominantly filled with preteens from their birthday parties, scoffing and showing off and giggling and pushing each other onto the floor. Our group was too big, and had to be divvied up. Charlotte and I took a seat with the green team, and Rich practically dragged Darcy to the blue one. Then he flitted over to my side, quickly swiped two streaks of war paint on my cheeks, and darted back before I could throttle him. I slumped, defeated.
“I hate you so much,” Darcy was saying.
“You'll love me for this,” beamed Rich. A 13-year-old girl stared at him, and he raised his hand for a high five. She scooted away. “Brat,” he mumbled.
The rest was delightfully nostalgic. An attending employee entered the team room and rattled off instructions. He pointed out the emergency exits and addressed medical concerns, and mentioned some strange horror story — about an epileptic child and strobe lights — that left three quarters of the room horrified. He clapped his hands and said, “okay, then!” leading us to suit up, where we strapped on our vests and powered up our guns. Some nervous energy was sifting through the room, and I began to get giddy and excited. Even Charlotte was grinning, pointing at Richie. “Your ass is grass.”
“You're the one on the green team, Lucas — not me,” he said, wryly, clicking both ends of his vest. Dotted blue lights flickered across the screen at his chest, and he examined it. “Number 67, ladies. Remember that one. That will be the number absolutely dominating the scoreboards.”
“Hey, Rich?” interrupted Darcy, grudgingly strapping in.
“Yeah?” He whirled around.
“Shut up.”
“Save that temper for the game, Judi.” Rich clapped him on the shoulder.
• • •
If memory serves correctly, there are two distinct ways of playing laser-tag. You can either:
1 — Get your Rambo on and ambush and alienate other players;
2 — Be a pussy and play the defensive by lurking around your team's base.
Charlotte was all over #2 like jam on toast. I tried to force her out, but she's ridiculously stubborn. So, I ditched, and followed the trail of other greens, up on the higher level. The absolutely awesome thing about this place was probably its two floors of maze-like, pitch-black, winding corridors, speckled with those neon strobe lights these people seem to have a strange fetish for. And with techno music blaring in the background, people got a little hardcore. It was intense. We had battle cries.
I skulked around with another girl a few years younger, peeking over the steeped stairwell. I spotted two yellows to the side, raised my gun and fired, setting off their vests. They groaned, and darted off, and the girl flashed me a smile, and said, “I want to go deactivate the blue base — but I don't want to go alone.”
“Got separated?” I asked. “I'll go with you.” So, we disappeared shiftily to the alternate stairwell, took cover when a blue fired at us, and weaved around the yellow base until we got to the other. The fact that it was unguarded raised some suspicions. The girl cocked her gun like friggin' Tomb Raider, and I snorted, giggling. Suddenly, Rich popped out, teeth bared, and fired at me, setting off the deactivation.
“You bitch!”
He blew on the tip of his gun expertly. “Did I ever tell you how good I am? It's a wonderful story, really…” Suddenly, the sensor on his vest rang, and the blue lights dimmed. He whipped around, outraged, only to see Charlotte grinning at him with her gun raised.
“I thought you were going to be around our base!”
“I lied,” Charlotte said, smiling, and watching Rich smugly.
“You think you're hot shit, Lucas?” Rich said, menacingly. His vest reactivated, and he raised his gun. She laughed and ran off, and he barreled in after her, screaming, “I will end you!”
“Oh, Lord,” I grinned. I stepped around the blue base carefully, fired at and hit an adolescent boy (patting his shoulder when he hung his head in shame), and deactivated the base sensor, which apparently got you a shitload of points, I just couldn't be bothered to find out how many. Then I lurked around. A couple times I got swarmed by a mob of yellows, got deactivated twice, took out three, and bolted for my own base. It was so damn fun and adrenaline-pumping. I had to catch my breath a couple of times, wiping the sweat from my brow by the green base. And then I saw him.
Will Darcy was crouched down, with another teammate, behind two barrels, firing over the top of them. He took out a green and a yellow, aimed again, missed, and swore. His teammate stealthily crossed over to the other side, and, when he popped up again to fire, Darcy got deactivated. “Goddamn it,” he muttered, crouching down. And then I grinned, knowing perfectly well
what I needed to do.
I snuck up behind him, practically on all fours and just barely rounded the corner. Then I poked my head in and aimed my gun at the point-happy sensor on his back and fired just a second after it reactivated back to life. His gun fell as result of his shock, and he spun around, wide-eyed. I started laughing, doubled over.
“That's just mean.”
“I disagree,” I grinned.
“You realize that you have about 15 seconds left before I come after you.”
“I'm really not afraid.”
“Nine seconds.”
“Oh, Darcy's so tough. I'm shaking! —— Seriously, look at my knees.”
Then he sprung up and barreled toward me, and I yelped, anxious and grinning, in the direction of my base. I entered it through one side, and looked in front of me and over my shoulder, heart thumping in my chest. It was completely empty, and I felt a Bond-esque suspicion come over me. I crouched low, and looked between the paneling of the roofed and U-shaped little base. Our sensor twinkled green light in the center, and I glanced at it quickly.
Suddenly, my vest rang out and died down from behind, and I cried out. I whirled around, and Darcy had his gun cocked at me, grinning with a smile I almost wanted to smack off his face. I folded my arms angrily, and he approached, laughing.
“Don't be such a sore loser.”
“30 seconds, Darcy. —— I'll get you.”
“I don't think you have it in you,” he said, suddenly drawing near. I was about to move backward, but he took the cord of my gun, which was apparently mashed up in knots, and nimbly untangled it for me. I looked up at him, puzzled.
It happened in an instant. One minute, Will Darcy was a solid wedge of distance away — and the next, his hand was cradling my cheek, his mouth pressed against mine. I was so completely dumbfounded in shock, that I think I raised my hands to shove him off, but my brain didn't make the connection fast enough to physically meet with his body and send him hurling in the other direction. He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed. “I'm sorry. I had to. I couldn't help it.” Darcy's voice was barely a murmur.
My lips tingled where he met them, and he was just about to kiss me again when a wire connected in my brain — I then did shove him off, aggressively, and he staggered back.
“What —— the hell —— was that?!” I sputtered, disoriented.
“Lizzy —” Darcy started, strained. He made a move to get closer, but suddenly two yellows poked their heads around and fired, startling us both. When he turned to look at them over his shoulder, I made my move. I bolted in the other direction, as far away as I could get. When round one of the tag ended, I was crouched down at the farthest corner of the highest level, away from any of the combat, my mind positively reeling.
18
—
Ramifications of the Lovesick
“Hey,” Charlotte panted, trying to keep up. Maybe my shoes had self-contained motors that I didn't know about. But I crossed that parking lot like somebody possessed. She followed behind me, and whirled me around. “For God's sake, Lizzy, slow down!”
“I need to get to the car,” I explained.
“Does the fate of the entire human race depend on it? Jesus,” she said, laughing, hands on her knees. A few feet away, Rich was grumbling something to Will Darcy, who looked off, distracted and inattentive. I kicked something with the toe of my sneaker, clenching my fists.
Charlotte looked up at me. “Something really strange is going on, here. First, you completely book it after our game. You didn't even congratulate our team. And what is up with Will Darcy trying to talk to you every five seconds? It's like he's delivering his last will and testament. What's so urgent?”
“Charlotte, you're just imagining things,” I said, lightly. “Nothing like that's going on. Now, there's a bottle of water in the car and I'm really thirsty. Parched. Like, Seven Years in Tibet thirsty. Can we go?”
“Look, don't insult me,” she scowled, hands on her hips. I tried to walk back, but she grabbed my wrist. “Lizzy, you're all flushed, and you kind of look like a serial killer. I mean that in the nicest way. I get that the laser-tag arena's dark and you can't make much out, but what happened in there that's got you so shaken up?” I opened my mouth, and she interrupted me — “and don't tell me it's nothing. I've known you for years. You can't pull that shit with me.”
I glanced back. Rich was sprinting up to us, Darcy lagging behind. He clapped a hand on Charlotte's shoulder, a little too forcefully, and she 'Oof'!'d, stumbling forward a little. He winced, and steadied her. “Sorry. Just wanted to congratulate you for getting the second-highest rank for your team. Beastly.”
“Yeah, considering you fooled everybody into thinking you were this meek little player from the sidelines,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. Charlotte smiled a little, and Rich squinted at me through the sunlight.
“We should go out to lunch to celebrate.” He whirled around, cupping his hands around his mouth. He hollered Darcy's name, and motioned for him to catch up. Rich looked at me quickly, and looked back to him. “You guys are acting really strangely. All quiet and pissy. Did you two duke it out in there or something, Mortal Kombat style?”
“Sorry?”
“You know…” Rich flexed his arms, gritting his teeth. “Finish him! —— Did you seriously not have a Nintendo 64 growing up?”
“Four other sisters, sorry,” I said. “And no, to that first point, too.”
Charlotte looked at me carefully, and I avoided her eyes.
• • •
Will Darcy was 99.89% sure that, if it wasn't for rigid social constraints, Elizabeth Bennet would have leaped across their booth and throttled him in broad daylight. She would peck at her salad without interest, glare up at him, get beet-red, and look down again. It was interesting (and confusing) to watch.
And Darcy was very confused. In fact, he was utterly miserable. He barely said a word, watching her.
It was bad enough that he had completely lost this battle, decided 'to hell with it', and taken a gamble on Lizzy Bennet, of all girls. He had waited since her arrival to test the waters, one toe at a time, to see if anything had changed. And the vitals had looked good. Had she not been flirting with him at some point too? He was almost certain.
Until he, you know, actually kissed her. Something told him that a favorable response didn't include physical violence, outrage, and bolting for the nearest exist. This sort of thing really had the potential of beating a man's self-esteem with a baseball bat.
Maybe she was just scared.
Charlotte and Rich knew, to some extent — he got that. They weren't obvious about it, but there were tons of shifty eyes and quiet, mental observations. It was pretty clear, along with an overeager attempt from Rich to curb topics and strike up conversation.
“So, I'm now under the impression that the children of this nation are being bred as laser-tag soldiers,” he said, taking a slice of bread from the basket. “I mean, did you see it in there? Some of them have Napoleonic tactics.”
“What, little mathematical perfection, focus on total annihilation instead?” Charlotte asked, cheerfully, pausing when he stared at her. “I did my graduation project on the French Revolution. My dad's a history teacher. It rubbed off.”
“Nice,” he said, laughing. “Maybe that's how you pulled through. Of course, Lizzy wouldn't know. She completely disappeared for the last few minutes of the game. Chickened out and played the defensive side near your base?”
She smiled a little and said nothing, stabbing a chunk of lettuce. Darcy blinked.
And Rich was exceedingly observant. He just tried to get to the truth with an indirect method, saying, “okay, now I'm convinced that there was some Mortal Kombat action. Because Lizzy strikes me as competitive, and Will I know to be the kind of guy to trump on that. And you two have barely said a word in the last hour.”
Charlotte excused herself to the ladies' room and Lizzy stared at her leaving for about h
alf a minute before slumping in her seat. She seemed conflicted on whether to follow her friend or not.
“Dang, now I'm going to be the only jackass talking,” scorned Rich, shoving his plate aside. “You know, because you two are so chatty and everything.”
Lizzy took the hint. She leaned forward, only addressing Rich — “by the way, 67 on the scoreboards? You pulled in at seventh place — how is that dominating?”
Rich narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger. “Don't rub it in. You should be grateful, not insulting. I brought you here to begin with. You could have stayed at the hotel nursing Charlotte for all I cared.”
“You knew about that?” she asked, surprised.
“I have spies scaling that building.” He paused. “That, and I ran into Collins, on my way from Rosings, who might have told me.”
She snorted softly, taking a bite of her Caesar salad.
“And good ol' Will here was great backup,” Rich grinned, slinging an arm around Darcy's shoulder. Lizzy barely glanced up. “Though you didn't really pull through for me. You were doing trench warfare or something, up on the second level.”
“These two players wanted my help,” mumbled Darcy. “Over the right staircase, by the green base.”
“You, my friend, have a heart of gold,” said Rich, emphatically, turning to Lizzy. “Seriously. He's just a good guy. Always pulls through for people.”
“Write him a sonnet, will you,” muttered Lizzy sharply, tracing the rim of her glass. She refused to look at him.
“You're just unconvinced because you don't know him well enough,” Rich explained, cheery. “He's just an epic friend. Tell her what you did for Charlie, Will. Maybe she'll understand.”
Rich was trying too hard to curry his cousin some favor, and Darcy was just about to tell him to bugger off, when he realized that Lizzy was finally looking at him — and with such palpable, glaring distrust that he had rather hoped he hadn't met her eye to begin with.